


Just a Little Speck of Forever

by Cryon



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: And by that I mean getting c o m f y, Comfort, Fluff, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryon/pseuds/Cryon
Summary: “Oh, I’ll be. You’re ever the lump of sugar in this bitter sea of eternity, my lovely Reader.”
Relationships: Sandra/The Reader (Pyre)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Just a Little Speck of Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Finished Pyre today. Got an incredibly intense urge. Here's the result. Takes place an unspecified amount of time after a post-Reader Ascension ending.

The wood creaks in protest of your boots' stomping. You pay it no heed, busy as you are hurrying inside the wagon. The door closes behind you with a satisfying bang that leaves you momentarily deaf to the storm outside, and eager to relish in some much needed reprieve. You hang the lamp on a rafter so that its flickering flame may carve recognizable shapes out of the shadows, force your stiffened hands into playing around with the squeaky metal of the stove until its embers begin to glow, and finally stop after righting yourself. The sudden stillness is dizzying enough that you need a few moments to recollect yourself, the short distance from the blanketed straw chair seemingly too much to handle for your wobbly legs. You somehow survive the few steps it takes to reach it without trips, slips or, Scribes forbid, flips. Your body falls into it, a sack of flesh and bone rattled to the core by momentum and residual frigidity, and amidst your seat's groans, you voice your relief in a tired sigh.

“Had I eyes to gaze upon you right now, I would have a hard time distinguishing you from a leaf trembling in the wind, my lovely Reader.”

A smile grows spontaneously, lending some warmth to the bluish hue your trembling lips have taken on. Their reflection beckons you, distorted beyond recognition, from the glimmering orb sunken in the comfort of a velvety pillow, which in turn sits upon its very own pedestal installed inside the already cramped wagon's interior. A sorry sight - your face that is. You've no doubt that the real thing, painted over a proper mirror's surface, would be no less unpleasant to gaze upon. A portrait of human weakness laid bare, proof of a loss against the elements' unmerciful power. In front of most, you would hardly pay heed to it. Under  _ her _ scrutiny, you cannot stifle a pang of shame over your inability to somehow abate your natural shortcomings.

“Aha, what is it that I spy with my little mind's eye? Embarrassment? Mmh, but such a flavor to it, I could mistake it for guilt. For what though, I cannot begin to fathom.”

For showing yourself like this in front of her. Weak, vulnerable. Unworthy. The crystal's lone inhabitant doesn't waste any time trampling upon your little fears and faint insecurities with an audible scoff.

“You worry about losing a worth you've long since proven. One which certainly you won't lose to the limitations of your physical form.”

You can't help it. Just like the snow melting off your robes, worries like these are wont to pelt you on occasion. Such are the weaknesses of people.

“And so dumbfounding is your sincerity, when you count yourself among those faceless masses in spite of your ordeals.”

Your smile thaws further, blooming into a grin. You lean forward and reach out for the orb, sure now that your hands have warmed enough to grasp it without peril of accidentally letting it fall. Already, before you have rested your body back into the chair, you can see materializing within your hazy mind that familiar smirk, the cocky slant of her expression in the aftermath of her scathing words. Then again, you think you know better by this point… Is this your idea of praise, dear Sandra?

“Is this your idea of a joke, my lovely Reader?”

The laugh you share is subdued and tranquil, like elegant calligraphy penned with fondness by a practiced hand. Your forehead meets the sphere’s smooth roundness, your eyelids fall, and for a moment, you let yourself take in the sound of the rattling furniture, the bellowing storm beyond the cart’s sturdy walls, the heat wafting from the stove over your still trembling body.

“You would do well to put my vessel aside. Surely the least you need right now is to put your face all over something cold and hard like it.”

Perhaps it is the case. You find it hard to mind, when a longing far more profound has seized control your priorities.

“And just what could be so much more precious to you than your comfort, pray tell?”

You are sitting in a straw chair under cover of several blankets while holding a crystal orb in your hands. But, at the same time, you sit in the presence of Sandra within the recesses of a waking dream only you two share. You can see her vainglorious countenance, and beneath it, the subtleties you have long since learned to discern. Her question is rhetorical yet not: she asks for an answer she already knows, a truth you’ve made clear the day you tucked her magical prison in your robes rather than leave her with the sole company of her personal phantoms. She wears her pride well, hides her fidgety admissions with admirable skill. For these, and enough other reasons to fill several libraries with the volumes necessary to compile them all, the answer comes spontaneous, genuine and without the slightest hint of hesitation - you owe her this much, and so much more.

For whose grasp could have a hold so firm on your heartstrings, so strong to distract you from supplices of mind and body alike, than the soothing presence of your dear Sandra?

You see her smile falter, amidst the glow of cheeks painted over by something other than the ethereal brilliance which surrounds her. It is but an instant. For you, it lasts a savory eternity.

“Ever the fool, you and your quaint tastes.”

She speaks her admonishment with the softness of a gratitude even a thousand years of unlife have failed to teach her how to properly express. The corners of her mouth soon lose their edges, drooping under the weight of a bitter somberness. Worries, it would seem, interest more than the so-called “faceless masses”.

“Would that I could give you warmth on this cold night as you’ve given so abundantly to me.”

You are quick to interrupt her impending deluge of melancholy, meeting her puzzled look with an eagerness she does not know what to make of. Undaunted, you show with actions rather than words what you mean. And your act is to lower the orb on your lap, tuck your legs in, and curl around it with an embrace that encompasses your entire self. Sandra protests the nonsense of it, to no avail: by the time you are finished wrapping the thick blanket around yourselves, Sandra has admitted her defeat through flaring nostrils - you have no doubt that, behind her eternally sealed eyelids, her eyes are turning in resigned exasperation.

“Oh, I’ll be. You’re ever the lump of sugar in this bitter sea of eternity, my lovely Reader.”

You find yourself agreeing. So much so, that you cannot mind your inability to see the particular smile she’s smiling: the illusion of her wrapping you in an embrace thrice as tight is worth this little loss. But then, who is to say that this is a mere dream, when the warmth you share on this cold night, and the bond that binds you together, surpasses anything this so-called “real” world could ever offer you?


End file.
